The Gates Of Mercy
by Uberkaiserin
Summary: Beatrix, Steiner and the horrors of war. Takes place during the attack on Alexandria. [Steiner's POV; slightly SteinerBeatrix]


The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,   
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,   
In liberty of bloody hand shall range   
With conscience wide as hell.   
  
_Henry V, 3.3.9-13_

There are only two left now of the ten or twenty who went out to fight the Mist monsters: she and I alone in the rain-soaked streets, exhausted beyond all measure, clothes and armour covered in blood – ours or the monsters' or that of the dead and dying soldiers lying prostrate in the mud or propped against the ruined remains of buildings, I can't tell – and dirt and grime, flesh the same and worse, bruised and bleeding in a hundred different places. Her long hair is matted with blood and perspiration, some of it plastered across her face and the rest hanging about her shoulders in filthy, greasy clumps, but she seems not to care; she is past caring, I expect, as I am past caring whether the blood soaked through my shirt-sleeves and drying black and thick and reeking sickly-sweet of death on my front and forearms is mine or not.

She calls a retreat – so different from the old days – and I turn to go, but she stays where she is, sword drawn, bent almost double and supporting herself with a bloodied hand on an equally bloodied thigh, wild-eyed, panting, trying to catch her breath. Aren't you coming, I ask her, and she says not yet; and then from somewhere there come the sounds of a multitude of legs all moving at once, of hideous growls and snarls and people screaming and weeping and dying, close enough to be made out above the deafening clamour of the attack, and she motions wildly to somewhere behind me. Go on, she says, and I'll catch you up; I tell her I won't as the sounds grow louder. Go _on_, she snaps, glaring tired and exasperated through her one good eye, that's an _order_ – she knows I am not one to disobey an order, and I turn and run as she summons Holy to her fingertips.

I look back over my shoulder, slipping on cobblestones slick with blood and rain and stumbling over dead bodies as I run: she drives her sword into the neck of one of the Mist monsters and the thing rears up and thrashes about, black blood pouring from the wound, shrieking and wailing; its cries are joined by those of its companion, engulfed in a blast of Holy and seared alive, flailing wildly in its agonising death throes as she tugs her sword free of the dead thing beside it and turns to run after me, dragging her wounded feet in a limping trot and stumbling over the bodies of soldiers she trained herself. There is one who is not quite dead yet, sitting leaning against a pile of rubble and soaked with blood from a gaping wound in her chest, and she cries out to us as we pass in-between pitiful, piteous gasps for air – don't leave me, sir, ma'am! But there is no helping her now; and we run on, though our hearts are breaking.

And she has her own wounds to tend to – bites and scratches, and a fresh wound she must have been given just now, a deep ugly gash in her side; her white general's coat is soaked through with crimson, almost all over now. She does not make it to the end of the street: what little energy she has left is spent, and she trips and falls with a sad little cry like that of a dying animal. Perhaps she _is_ dying, but I will not allow myself to think so; I manage to catch her before she falls completely, and sink involuntarily to my knees on the sodden stones with her in my arms, too tired myself to support her. She asks if there are any more of the Mist monsters, I tell her no, and she slumps forward against me with a sigh of pure relief, _Save the Queen_ falling from her grip and clattering lifelessly across the cobblestones.

Water, she says, her throat's dry; so is mine, but I give the little water I have with me to her. My arm comes away from her waist red and sticky when I reach for the flask at my belt; she snatches it from me and fumbles at the lid with trembling hands, hurriedly unscrewing it and dropping both it and the flask onto the ground in her haste. _Damn_, she hisses as the water pours out onto the street, and then she says she's sorry; I tell her not to worry. She looks over her shoulder for the soldier who called to us earlier, guilty-looking, biting her lip: she wants to help the girl even though she has exhausted her healing powers and used all the dressings and bandages she had with her, even though she is hurt herself and still bleeding; but she is dead now, young face frozen in the agony of dying.

And Beatrix, the great general – turns away and buries her face in her bloodied, filth-stained hands and cries, leaning back against me and sobbing silently, delicate frame trembling softly like her hands were earlier, and the only thing I can think to do is to hold her closer and stroke her dirty hair until her crying subsides and the only sound is the sound of the rain.

There are only two left now of the ten or twenty who went out to fight the Mist monsters: she and I, alone in the rain-soaked streets.

~Fin~


End file.
